League of Extraordinary Gentlemen: 2000
by Jed Rhodes
Summary: Mycroft Holmes assembles a new League for a new era: can the War Doctor, Auror Ron Weasley, super spy James Bond, Silent Hill survivor Heather Mason, Slayer Buffy Summers and ex-NYPD cop Max Payne discover who has stolen alien tech and demonic artefacts? And can they stop whatever they plan? Multi-Xover, Silent Hill, BTVS, Doctor Who, Harry Potter, James Bond, BBC Sherlock, FEAR.
1. Chapter 1: The Candidates

**Chapter One: The Candidates.**

**AN: So: this has been done a million times before. But hey ho, I felt like it, and I'd like to think that the team I've assembled is - well, unusual in some respects, not least my choices with some of the candidates. This is a little side project that's grabbed my attention (rargh, plot bunnies!) while I do uni work (ugh) but there's a good ten thou plus written so far and another few thousand well on the way. To readers of my other stuff, see my profile. **

**Without further ado, then, let us begin.**

* * *

**London, England.**

In a government building in London, the capital of England, there sat a man. This man had a high forehead, dark hair, and a thing frame: his name was Mycroft Holmes, and he had been given a rather interesting - not to say frustrating - task. He was to assemble a 'League of Extraordinary Gentlemen', a group of exceptional individuals with exceptional talents, who would combat a threat to Her Majesty's Realm.

Assembling said league of extraordinary gentlemen - although that term was heavily outdated, he supposed, given the feminist movement's work since the days of the first league - was never a simple matter, he thought to himself. Anything but, in fact. After all, one had to consider who had the finest skills that would benefit such an alliance of individuals. Then one had to consider how such an assemblage would work together - if it would work together at all and not fail miserably.

The trick was that the group had to work as precisely that - a group, a team, and not just as an assembly of incredible individuals.

There were a number of candidates that would need to be contacted, of course. Some were obvious, and some were... less so. But all of them were excellent choices, or so thought Mycroft Holmes, the man who had commissioned the research himself to locate the perfect group of individuals. Each of them would bring to the League a certain something - skills and experience that would make each and every one of them an asset. Even better, several different cases would be individuals who might not be "missed" for want of a better term, and would be more able to deal with the more unfortunate aspects of the job.

He sat back, waiting. If he was correct in his thinking (and he usually was) then right now, his agents and those acting under his instructions were, even as he sat there, searching for the perfect candidates.

And of course there were one or two that he could go retrieve himself.

* * *

**Candidate 1: "The Doctor".**

_The Doctor is a Time Lord from the planet Gallifrey. At different times he has proven to be an unreliable to trusted ally of UNIT and a benefactor to the entire human race, depending largely on which incarnation he is in. The Doctor is known for his ability to "regenerate" into different forms when badly injured, although this ability is known to have limitations. Incarnations Three, Four, Seven, Ten and Eleven are especial allies of UNIT and are to be sought as priority contacts._

_Note from "M": for reasons of mission convenience, these incarnations will not be sought out for project LEGC20, as they are not considered psychologically suited for the role. Alternatives are to be sought from remaining incarnations, focusing on Six and Seven, prioritising mission-focused, more expedient personalities. _

**Planet Demeter Six.**

The man who had once been called the Doctor, once upon a blue moon, ducked as another blue laser bolt slammed into the wall behind him. He grimaced slightly, irritated by the shower of rubble that sprayed across him, landing on his battered jacket and greying hair. Metallic screams accompanied more wide blasts, and the man had to thank whatever lucky stars he had (not that he had many) that the Daleks - the robotic creatures he was fighting - had always been terrible shots. He had to suppress an inappropriate grin at the thought of battles between squads of Daleks where they would shoot and shoot, each shot missing.

He grimaced slightly. Unfortunately, these Daleks were more efficient.

The darkened sky seemed to echo the feelings of foreboding he had in his heart, as he looked up at the burning skyline of the city. Demeter, once a shining example of civilisation and beauty, had become yet another planet burnt by the effects of the Time War, yet another world that he was trying - and failing - to save. Oh, so many now, and yet it was still so very far from being over.

Red and blue laser bolts flew hither and thither, blasting into the surrounding buildings. A few Galifreyan soldiers held the line here - all that was left of a defence force that had numbered in the hundreds. The Doctor - the man who had no right to be the Doctor anymore, as he was forced to constantly remind himself - had kept these few behind in order to make some attempt to hold the line. It wasn't working. It was almost depressing, except that the man who had once answered to the name Doctor had seen altogether too many times to continue to be moved.

"Sir!" a young Gallifreyan soldier yelled across to him, bringing him from his grim thoughts. "What do we do?"

The young man was one of that scant handful who were still fighting, most having been killed or having retreated long ago.

Why did they always expect _him_ to be able to help them? He was only one man, and not even that exceptional once you took him from an arena where his intellect might be of use. Nonetheless, he had yet to be placed into such an arena - his intelligence was his asset, always. Even on this field, on this day.

"They're approaching down the street, yes?" he replied, his gravelly voice reminding him every day of the horrors he had seen in this war.

"Yes sir!" the soldier said urgently.

"Good!" the man who had once been the Doctor said, a hard grin forming on his face. He grabbed a small silver object - his sonic screwdriver - from his bandolier and aimed it at two points opposite one another on nearby buildings. "Target those points - your rifle's targeting system should have them locked in. Fire on my signal!"

The boy nodded, apparently satisfied with this, and relayed the orders to his fellows. A moment later, they were aiming. The man who had been the Doctor once (_oh, such a long time ago_), waited patiently as dozens of Daleks approached down the road, each one screaming in metallic voices about how they would exterminate the Gallifreyan soldiers.

"Now!" the man called, and Gallifreyan lasers lanced out, hitting strategic points of the building. A moment later, the buildings collapsed, crushing the Dalek troopers as they did so. A few were left but a storm of laser fire - coming from soldiers with now greatly improved morale - destroyed them.

The Doctor stood up, getting up from behind the barricade, grabbing a rifle as he did so. He signalled for the others to stay back while he walked - he knew the Daleks well enough to know they would possible have some trap.

He almost hoped they did.

He approached the lead Dalek where it lay, it's casing shattered, it's eyestalk still glowing blue in the darkness of the burning city. It looked up at him - even in it's damaged state, it knew him. They always knew him.

"_You... are... the... Doctor..._" it said, trying to speak even as it's vision circuits failed.

"Once, perhaps," he replied tersely. It was a name they feared, no sense denying it properly. He knelt by it, considering his next words carefully. "I know the Dalek High Command will see this, for they link to all their troopers, and so I give you a message. Surrender. You cannot win. There is no feat where I will not match you, no prize I will not contest you for, no victory I will not deny you, no field I will not best you upon. End this war, return to your appointed time and place, or see your entire mutant race meet the fate you would so readily bestow on others. End this, or be exterminated."

The Dalek croaked at him, apparently trying to muster some words, but he had no patience for it. He aimed the rifle at it's eye and fired, and the thing sparked and exploded, dying with a gasp - a whimper, not a bang. How typical.

Without sparing the wrecked creatures a second glance, he turned and waked away, dropping the rifle into the dirt and ignoring the cheering Gallifreyan defenders.

* * *

He sat back in his TARDIS console, thinking about the battle he had just been in.

The Time War - the thing this version of himself had been born to fight - was an ever present thing, a monstrous conflict that he as a man was just not prepared for, even though he had known about it even before the fateful moment on Karn that had created him. Despite his bravado to the Dalek, he knew that he would never be able to beat them. He could stall them, match them move for move, but there were millions of them and he could only delay the inevitable...

He shook his head, trying to clear it of such fatalistic thoughts. He thought logically now: his form was no longer young, but it was still hale, a warrior through and through. He had won today, against great odds. The Dalek task force had been utterly eradicated at his hands and though he knew his message would not stop the Dalek forces, he knew they would fear him all the more for it: he did not relish that fear, but he understood it's power and how to harness it, and that was sometimes enough.

A bleeping from his console distracted him and he pressed a button on the console in surprise. His eyes widened as he read the readout.

_Space time telegraph activated. Location: London, England, 1999. _

The Space Time Telegraph? Why had it begun signalling again? Was it UNIT? Did they need him?

A part of him thought that he should ignore it - Earth was asking for the Doctor, and that wasn't who he was anymore. But then he realised that if it was something a previous version of himself could handle, he would already remember it - it would have transferred to that self.

So it was something only he as he was now could deal with. How interesting.

If nothing else, the man who had once been the Doctor thought, it might give him the chance to pretend - for a moment, for a shining second - that he was the Doctor again.

* * *

**Candidate 2: James Bond, code name 007.**

_James Bond is, in laymans terms, the most accomplished and dangerous secret agent on the planet, what he doesn't know about weapons and intelligence gathering isn't worth knowing, and what he doesn't know about the latest gadgets he can soon learn from Q, his quartermaster. He is, however, noted as being somewhat mentally scarred: psychological analysis indicates that he does not attempt more meaningful relationships in fear of being hurt by the attempt, as well as the fear of losing those close to him following the murder of his wife on their wedding day. This has led to womanising habits and rampant alcoholism. _

_Note from "M": although the more paranormal and extraterrestrial elements of the job may be beyond his initial ability to handle, 007 is nothing if not adaptable and will prove an excellent addition to the team. _

**James Bond's Apartment, London.**

James Bond, gent 007 of MI6, sat back in the lounge of his luxury penthouse flat and sighed, nursing a vodka martini (_shaken, not stirred_) in his right hand. He was awaiting the next mission he would be assigned by MI6 and M, his superior.

He snorted to himself. He was always awaiting the next mission - it was practically his life. Scratch that - it _was_ his life. He loved missions, love the action, was always eager for the thrill of being back in the field.

Recently, however, he had realised that he had to face the facts of his current position. At fifty two, his days as a front line agent might soon be over, and that being the case, he had no idea what to do with the rest of his life.

Having said that, desk work might be vaguely interesting...

Who was he trying to kid? He snorted at the thought of desk work, and just how unsuited to it he was. He was a field man, always had been. It was in the field that he found his fulfillment, in the field that he found his passion and drive. Outside of it he was at best irrelevant, and at worst downright undesirable, his psychological flaws making him just plain unpleasant company. It was just how things were.

A knock at his flat door brought him out of his unwanted feelings of sadness, and he was grateful for it. He got up, walked over to his door, and opened it.

A tall thin man stood at his door, dressed in an elegant suit. He smiled when Bond answered the door.

"Mr James Bond?" he said, his voice cut glass and upper class. When Bond nodded, the man continued. "Mycroft Holmes. I'm here to discuss an assignment with you, if quite convenient."

"Does this have M's approval?" Bond asked, narrowing his eyes suspiciously.

"It does, yes," Holmes replied, holding out a hand.

Bond didn't know this man, but he definitely came across as being government, almost certainly high up. He grasped the man's hand firmly.

"Well then," he said, "I guess I'm at your service, Mr Holmes."

* * *

**Candidate 3: Ronald Bilius Weasley, Auror.**

_Ronald Weasley is part of the British Wizarding Community. He is an Auror (wizard law enforcement), and is a known associate of Harry Potter, with magical skills and intellect roughly equivalent to his contemporary. His abilities should prove most helpful._

_Note from "M": Weasley is our preferred candidate for this mission as opposed to Potter due to the comparative anonymity he has. As there is no discernible difference in their comparative skillsets this should not affect things. He is also less confident, and therefore less likely to question orders._

**The Leaky Cauldron, Wizarding London.**

Ronald Weasley, a tall red headed man with long hair and stubble covering his chin, sat in the Leaky Cauldron for the third night in a row, nursing a Firewhiskey bottle and a glass. Two more empty bottles sat near him. He may have looked to all the world like some kind of drunkard, but honestly, he didn't care all that much.

Right now, Hermione Granger - the woman he loved more than anything in this world - was sat in what had been their flat together, presumably much happier now that she had kicked him out for good. "I'm done with you!" had been her last words to him, screamed from the doorway of their little flat, tears streaming down her reddened face. Now he was staying in the Leaky Cauldron, unwilling to ask to stay with family and friends, most of whom he was sure would side with Hermione over him in a heartbeat.

He didn't even remember what they'd been arguing about - some small, insignificant thing, no doubt. But at this point he was fairly certain it didn't matter. He had lost her, and that made everything else irrelevant.

Somewhere in his heart, he had expected this. He had never - in his own mind - been the one that deserved her. He had never - in his own mind - been enough for the beautiful, intelligent woman. He was second best, second rate, someone to settle for but never be "the one" for anyone, least of all her.

He should have known. He'd always known.

He was _just no good._

Someone tapped him on the shoulder, breaking him - very unwillingly - from the reverie of his unhappy thoughts.

"Yeah?" he said, voice bleary through the drunkenness.

"Hey, mate," the sympathetic voice of Harry Potter, his best mate, replied.

Ron turned to face him. Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, the hero of the Wizarding World, was - despite the fact that Ron had no closer friend in the world - the last person Ron wanted to see right now.

A large, unpleasant part of Ron had always believed that Hermione would have preferred Harry, and though he knew Harry had no such designs - having been assured of such many years ago in such a way that even his mighty jealousies were assuaged - he still couldn't help but feel even worse seeing his friend, the man who was in some ways everything Ron had always wanted to be: famous, heroic, important to everyone.

He shook those thoughts off, for they were no use to him and he hated having them. Harry's eyes were filled with concern, as he might have expected.

"I looked for you at your place, but Hermione..." Harry said, but his trailed off. He shrugged apologetically.

"She didn't know where I was and didn't care," Ron guessed, frowning irritably at the thought of Hermione.

"I didn't say that," Harry replied, though the guilty look in his eyes told Ron all he needed to know. Harry fidgeted a little. "I think she's worried about you, mate," he added, though Ron figured that was more a combination of his friend's hope, selective interpretation of Hermione's tone, and probably some straight-up lying.

"If you're here to ask me to go back, don't bother," Ron said, frowning. "She kicked me out. She can come for me. And since we both know she won't, she can busy herself finding someone who doesn't have the emotional intelligence of a brick, or whatever she said I was..."

Ron made to turn back to his drink, but Harry grabbed his shoulder. A moment later, his friend's wand was out and a hastily muttered spell cleared Ron's head of his alcoholic intoxication. Ron frowned at Harry, now even more irritated.

"I didn't ask you to do that," he said, annoyance in his tone.

"I know," Harry said apologetically, "and I wouldn't have normally, except that I'm not here because of Hermione."

"Why _are_ you here then?" Ron asked, now even more confused (despite the lack of alcohol in his bloodstream).

"There's been a request for you," Harry said slowly, apparently not too happy about what he was saying.

"A request? For _me_? Who from?" Ron asked, confused by this revelation - it made no sense.

"Some Muggle authority," Harry said softly. "Contacted us via the Minister's connection to the Muggle PM."

That was unusual - actually, that was straight up peculiar, never mind '_unusual_'.

"Who were they?" Ron asked.

"I don't know, but whatever authority they had, Kingsley had to bow to it," Harry said grimly. "Whatever they want, it's important."

"Sure they didn't ask for _you_?" Ron said, a wry glint in his eye belied by his almost resigned tone. "Sounds like your kind of thing."

"They asked very specifically for you, Ron," Harry said. "They need your skills."

"My skills?" Ron snorted, his tone filled with sarcasm. "Now I know you're having me on. I haven't got any skills you don't have, and you're a better Auror than me."

"Maybe," Harry said diplomatically - probably not wanting to admit his friend was absolutely right, Ron thought. "But they've asked for you."

"Great," Ron said, sighing slightly. "They say why?"

"No, but for them to ask for any Auror, it's got to be bad," Harry reasoned. "I'm to take you to the Ministry to floo you there."

The Boy-Who-Lived paused, and Ron could tell he was about to say something. Sure as sin, Ron was right - his friend was predictable if nothing else.

"Look, mate," Harry said, sounding concerned, but Ron held up a hand to forestall any more words.

"Whatever it is, I'm sure I'll be fine," he said wearily. "I've gotten into my fair share of scrapes."

"Do you want me to tell Hermione where you are? Or what you're doing?" Harry asked, and Ron sighed. He thought about that for a good long moment, and then shook his head.

"No point bothering her," he said, grimly. "I'm sure it doesn't matter that much."

_I'm sure _I_ don't matter that much_, he thought to himself, as he followed Harry out of the pub.

* * *

**Candidate 4: Buffy Summers, incumbent Slayer.**

_Buffy Summers is the current Slayer, a mythical individual with the power to combat vampires. This grants her extraordinary strength and resilience when compared to the average human being, which makes her the optimum in hand to hand specialists available._

_Note from "M": undisciplined as she no doubt is, Miss Summers is among the best candidates for the hand to hand specialist of the group that our scouts can locate. Any impulsiveness on her part can be covered by support from teammates and her own abilities._

**Government car, London, en route to League HQ.**

"Explain this to me once more?" the blonde haired teenager asked her Watcher as they sat in the back seat of the luxury car, being driven to whatever undisclosed location she had been summoned to.

The tweed jacket wearing man sighed and adjusted his glasses. Rupert Giles was in some respects as in the dark about the whole strange affair as his protégée, Buffy Summers, but he at least was paying enough attention to gather some pertinent details.

"As I explained on the plane ride here, Buffy," he said, "the Watcher's Council were contacted by the British Government, who had a special request for your assistance on a matter that for _some_ reason the didn't deign to tell me about."

"Uh huh," Buffy said, voice laced with scepticism. "Why would they want me?"

"You are the Slayer," Giles pointed out, not unreasonably. "The killing of vampires is something of your area, perhaps they wanted you around for that purpose?"

"Killing vamps, huh," Buffy said, nodding thoughtfully. "Figures."

She sat back, still quietly admiring the surroundings. She had never been to London before, and so far, it was pretty cool.

"Got to say though, the ride is cool," she said, appreciating the leather seats of the luxury car.

"Admittedly, this _does_ seem very pleasant," Giles agreed, "but in my experience that just means that the task they want us to perform is all the more dangerous."

"Yippee," Buffy said sarcastically, her eyes rolling. "My lucky day."

"I wish you would take this more seriously," Giles admonished her. "If the British government has need of your services there is no doubt that there is some dark work afoot, work that you may well be ill-equipped to handle..."

" Giles," Buffy said, holding up a hand to placate him. "I'm taking it seriously." She looked so earnest that he almost believed her. "Seriously."

He sighed. This was going to be a long drive...

* * *

**Candidate 5: Max Payne, former DEA, former NYPD.**

_Max Payne is a former DEA and NYPD detective, known for his high stamina, adaptable nature and skill with most weapons given to him. He has one of the highest kill-counts outside of organised military known to normal humanity, and has proven himself against untrained mobsters and mob enforcers, trained militia, mercenaries, private security forces and other such military and non-military opponents._

_Note from "M": Mr Payne's depression and alcoholism, a result of the murder of his family, may make controlling him somewhat difficult. However, this can be counterbalanced by the fact that he is at heart a moralistic individual who always intends to "do the right thing". _

**Outside League HQ, London. **

Max Payne stood outside on the street of a city he had never been in, in a country he had never been to, and thought to himself - for the twelfth time that day - just what am I doing here?

If he thought back to the chain of events that had led him to this point, he could probably trace it back to... somewhere. The man at his door? The drinking? Losing his job at the DEA? The battle at Aesir Plaza? Alex's death?

Hell, trace the problem to the start. _Is this the Payne residence_? Michelle, the baby, three crazed killer junkies. Pain, physical and mental, never to be washed away, not by drink, not by pills, not by anything and everything he had tried in the years since.

Everything started from there, and every single thing that he did afterwards was a result of that, one way or another.

Truth be told, he had no desire to merely sit at home in what was left of his life, living in a dingy apartment and simply wasting away, much as the desire to do precisely that was all but overwhelming for him. But when the guy from the British Government of all things, had come up to his apartment, all suited and polite and asking if he had any tea, and then asked for his help with a special mission, citing various things Max had done in the past as if they were being read off of a résumé... well, he might have had no stake in it, but part of him felt that he could at least do something other than drinking to take his mind off of his feelings.

And anyway - what had the guy said? 'What we do is of the utmost importance - you may very well end up helping to save the word'. Yeah, that sounded nice. Might make some of what he had gone through worth while, as if anything in the world could.

He sighed, unable to justify any further delaying of the inevitable, and walked up to the ornate door. He knocked three times. It opened.

"Mr Payne," a smarmy English accent spoke. "We've been expecting you."

* * *

**Candidate 6: Heather Mason, survivor of Silent Hill.**

_Heather Mason has survived a visit to Silent Hill, one of the most paranormally affected places in the world. Her survival skills, adaptability, and improvisational weapons skills already highly recommend her as a member of a potential League of Extraordinary Gentlemen. In addition, her connection to the entity Alessa Gillespie may have benefits that are not yet entirely apparent. _

_Note from "M": Heather Mason in-and-of-herself is not particularly powerful or useful, though her adaptability and skill with weapons prevent her from becoming a liability. Her true strength lies in her experiences and her connection to Alessa Gillespie. If possible, this should be exploited._

**League HQ, briefing room, London.**

Heather Mason sat back in the big leather chair at one end of a large briefing table, still not certain that she was entirely comfortable with this place. But when someone in a suit comes up to you asking for your help with something, you don't normally say no, and though Heather wasn't entirely normal anymore (had she ever been, really, much as her father had tried to raise her to be precisely that?), she could still be somewhat intimidated by suited guys.

It was silly. Why should she be intimidated? She had faced down things that would have crushed these people: dark gods, ghosts, demons, monsters, lunatics... a guy in a suit was nothing compared to that, and yet...

Something - a feeling, maybe - had compelled her to go with him. Maybe it was the feeling that he wasn't lying (she had gotten good at figuring out who lied), or maybe it was because she was just impressed by a British (ha! Doubtful). In any case, she had agreed to go with him, to come here.

It wasn't _so_ bad. The place was impressive enough. Besides which, the man in the suit had said that if she helped them, there was a large chance that she could be involved in something that would save the world. It was, perhaps, a little out of her league, but she had fought a foetal God and so she reasoned little could be worse than that. Or at least, little could be as personally terrifying as that. And if she could help people... well, there wasn't really any reason not to help, if she could. Was there?

Admittedly, part of her had suspected some trap, but nothing had triggered any bad feelings that she normally had, and the radio she still always kept on her person (which, amazingly, no one had ever relieved her of despite the high security) was conspicuously quiet. Besides, if something bad were to happen, she was still in possession of her switchblade (again, no one relieved her of it - yay lax security!).

"Miss Mason?" the smarmy voiced Englishman said, sat at the opposite end of the briefing table with a smile on his face. "I believe the rest of the candidates are about to arrive. It's time."

She nodded mutely, less than eager to meet whoever the other people summoned to this meeting were. But then, it wasn't as though she had much of a choice. She was here now.

* * *

**AN: So, a few things before we continue.**

**Firstly: I've fudged a few dates here. It's meant to be early 2000's, but I've not specified a year because honestly I'm not sure when it would be set, I'm wanting this to be roughly Series 3 Buffy (fudged a bit because I'm not as familiar with Buffy as I used to be), Max Payne after 1 but before 2, and James Bond after "Die Another Day," a few years after Deathly Hallows (happened in 97 IIRC), but I'm not certain what year to go for that would be "reasonable" to match all those (probably 2002 with a bit of fudging). **

**Secondly: that's Sherlock's Mycroft, earlier in his career, for anyone who couldn't tell. No, Benedict's Sherlock isn't showing up, except maybe in a cameo as a uni student (this is like ten years before Sherlock kicks off after all). **

**Thirdly: to stall any almost-inevitable questions about "why these people" that can't be answered by the narrative: John Hurt's War Doctor is my favourite Doctor (because John Hurt rules) and even if he weren't, his is the only one I see being reasonably willing to associate with a league that! let's face it, uses violence where needed. Buffy should be obvious, as should James Bond (both fairly big franchises, after all). Max Payne is one of my favourite video game characters. I picked Ron over Harry because everybody who uses Harry Potter characters in "modern League" fics goes for old green eyes himself, or Hermione (also an obvious choice), and I like the idea of using a character with Ron's insecurities (which in some ways mirror my own, hence why I like the character). As for Heather Mason, I just love Silent Hill, and I was really stuck for a sixth member until I hit upon using her. Plus I've never seen her used. If you're wondering what use she is - well, so is she, it'll all come up. **

**Anyway, I'll stop with my super-pompous author notes now. Next chapter should be up soonish. Thanks for reading.**


	2. Chapter 2: The Briefing

**Chapter Two: The Briefing.**

Mycroft smiled as the League - those who would together become the League at any rate - began assembling in the briefing room of London HQ. The room had a large briefing table, a projector and roll-up screen, several comfortable leather seats and a drinks cabinet - in short, the perfect place for any civilised meeting.

Miss Heather Mason - a young woman, not yet twenty, with dyed blonde hair and a white body-warmer jacket - was already here of course, having been the last member of the League to be recruited by the scouts Mycroft had sent. She looked around the room nervously, as if expecting it to dissolve into some kind of nightmare - actually, that seemed a rather apt metaphor for most of what she herself had experienced. Mycroft had vaguely considered the possibility that such things might actually happen, what with her presence, but he dismissed it. This place was fortunate - it had a great many seals and protective wards.

The next person to arrive was Mr Max Payne, the former DEA Detective. He was at first glance altogether unimpressive - a near six foot man in a leather coat, white shirt, boring tie and grey suit trousers, with cropped black hair and stubble. He looked tired and burnt out, like he had seen far too much in his life to ever look truly happy again (despite being maybe thirty five?), but he gave Miss Mason a tired smile that she returned nervously. He sat next to her at the opposite end of the briefing room, apparently eager to sit as far away from Mycroft as possible. So be it.

The next to enter the room was a man in a smart suit, although nowhere near as tailored as Mycroft's. He was dark haired and handsome, though his looks had become harder as he had aged. He sat nearer Mycroft, more comfortable with the man than the other two, although he gave them both a nod in greeting. Mason smiled softly, although obviously still uncomfortable. Payne returned the nod confidently, apparently sizing up the man. Bond looked to be doing the same. _Masculine posturing_, Mycroft thought to himself.

The next member of the new League to arrive was the Auror, Ronald Weasley: the man was a little shabbier than Mycroft was expecting, dressed in dark shirt, loose tie, dark trousers, boots and battered trench coat. He had unkempt stubble and messy red hair, and he seemed ill at ease in the room, nodding at the assembled people nervously. Mycroft wondered why he was as he was, but he wasn't there to worry about the League's lives, merely to assemble them. He only hope whatever had gotten Weasley into this state was something he could put behind him for the mission's sake.

The Slayer, Buffy Summers, arrived next. She, too, seemed ill-at-ease, being as she was without her Watcher (who had been allowed only to escort her as far as the door), but she also seemed more alert than some of the others had been. She sat near Heather Mason, smiling at the girl, who smiled nervously in return - apparently the two found some commonality, either in both being teenage girls or merely both being female (or possibly some sense that both of them were Americans). No surprise there, really.

Finally, a shorter man with white hair and a beard entered the room, quietly and almost stealthily, as if expecting trouble. He was wearing a battered leather jacket that seemed to hang off of his wiry frame, with a velvet cavalier waistcoat, striped shirt and grey scarf, topped off with a bandolier wrapped around his chest, various tools nestled within the loops of the belt. He observed the entire room, his brown eyes scanning every occupant, seemingly unsurprised by what he saw, before sitting down next to Mr Bond.

This must have been the incarnation of the Doctor summoned by the space-time-telegraph, though he looked like no incarnation of the Doctor Mycroft was familiar with from the files. Interesting: a future version?

Once the Doctor was sat down and Mycroft was certain he had everyone's attention, he smiled.

"Greetings to you all, Doctor, Mr Payne, Mr Bond, Mr Weasley, Miss Mason and Miss Summers," he said, putting every ounce of politeness into his voice as he looked to each member of the League in turn. "For those of you who do not know, my name is Mycroft Holmes, though for the sake of simplicity, you may refer to me as 'M'."

Bond smirked at the code name, obviously remembering his own 'M' (delightful woman that she was), but the rest of the group remained silent, sensing that Mycorft wished to continue, which, after a moment, he did.

"You may be wondering why you have each been summoned here," he said, looking at each of them in turn. Payne and Weasley nodded, both apparently uncertain for different reasons. Summers smirked, apparently considering the question altogether obvious, though the occasional looks she threw the other members of the group showed that she was feeling uncertain about their presence here. Miss Mason continued looking nervous. Mr Bond and the Doctor both remained passive, as if waiting for him to continue. "It is the intention of the British Government," Mycroft continued, "to resurrect the old and respected tradition of having a League of Extraordinary Gentlemen in service to the Crown."

The Doctor's eyes widened, as if moderately surprised at that particular tidbit. Most of the others looked confused.

"The League of what?" Weasley articulated (barely), sounding remarkably surprised. "Hate to break this to you mate, but I'm not extraordinary, and not much of a gentleman either."

"The term 'gentlemen' is largely a holdover from the older iterations of the League," Mycroft said softly, privately agreeing with Weasley's opinion of the term's applicability to himself. "But the term extraordinary does, in fact, apply to each of you, I can assure you. You would not be here otherwise."

"I'm sorry, I'm a bit confused," Miss Mason put in, her voice quiet as she attempted to muster the confidence to speak. "What's a... League of Extraordinary Gentlemen?"

"An assemblage," the Doctor put in before Mycroft could speak. He spoke with the authority of someone who was used to being listened to, this incarnation's voice gravelly and tired. "Usually of individuals possessed of particular skills and talents. These individuals, when assembled as a League, combat threats to the United Kingdom and - usually, as far as I am aware - the world itself." The eyebrows on the old man's face rose slightly, though less out of surprise but simple, tired curiosity. "It has not been seen as necessary to assemble a League in many years, Mr Holmes."

"Quite so," Mycroft replied, smiling softly. "But in this instance, it is very necessary."

"Why?" Bond asked, leaning forward. Clearly any details of the mission were important to him.

"In due time, Mr Bond," Mycroft smiled. "Firstly, I should introduce you all to one another..."

"Save it," Miss Summers said sharply, cutting him off. "I'm not here to play nice with a bunch of people I've never met, I'm here to kill whatever you brought me here to kill."

Mycroft raised an eyebrow.

"Gotta agree with the young lady," Mr Payne added, looking around the group. "No offence to everyone here, but I'm not all that interested in team building and all that bullshit."

Bond said nothing, but Weasley nodded as well, apparently as uninterested with social niceties as everyone else. Mycroft looked at the Doctor, almost hoping for support from the older man (considerably older, if his file were accurate).

"If we are to be a team," the Time Lord said, speaking as if the subject held no more interest for him than the weather, "it could be argued that knowing one another might engender greater trust."

"My point exactly," Mycroft said, glad that someone was speaking sense.

"However," the Doctor continued, as though Mycroft had never spoken, "I would prefer to know why this team was assembled first. I was in the middle of some... rather pressing business, when I was summoned here, and it would be beneficial to know that I was called for good reason."

Mycroft sighed, vaguely irritated but also quite aware (and accepting) of the logic.

"Very well, Doctor," he said, starting to become irritated by this entire conversation, "I will tell you what we know."

He stood up and approached a projector screen, picked up a remote, and activated the projector. The image showed a ransacked laboratory: a watermark on the bottom corner read '_Incident 2042, Department of P/S/E/O Investigation/Combating.'_

"There are certain divisions of the British government that are tasked with investigating the paranormal and supernatural, and finding methods of combating it," Mycroft began explaining.

"Supernatural and paranormal?" Payne put in, looking sceptical. "You mean like ghosts?"

"He means vampires and other demons," Miss Summers said, frowning. "You guys shouldn't have been messing with it."

"I entirely agree," Mycroft said, "but it wasn't my department and I was not made aware of it's activities until this incident had already happened."

"Demons?" Payne muttered, sharing a glance with Mr Bond, who looked equally confused, though he remained thankfully silent.

"We'll discuss the existence of supernatural forces another time," Mycroft said, somewhat impatiently. "However, the important thing to know is that the labs were ransacked and large amounts of both alien and demonic artefacts were stolen."

"And when you say alien you mean..." Weasley said, also confused.

"He means beings not of this world," the Doctor said, frowning. "It is normally UNIT's prerogative to investigate such matters, and they are best left with them."

"Them or Torchwood," Mycroft said, nodding in agreement. "As I said, not my department. Were it, I would have made many changes, I assure you."

"So someone's stolen a bunch of demon artefacts and you want us to retrieve them?" Miss Mason summarised quite succinctly. "Um, I don't know how much use I'll be..."

"That is not quite the mission, Miss Mason," Mycroft said, smiling somewhat condescendingly. "But rest assured, you would not have been selected for the League if we didn't believe your skills were up to the task."

"What is it that you want us to do?" Mr Bond asked. "I assume if it isn't a retrieval mission then..."

"In laymans terms, Mr Bond," Mycroft cut him off, "I want you to find the responsible party, discover their intentions, and then prevent said intentions."

The group looked at each other, each uncertain.

"And just how will we do that?" Mr Payne finally spoke, looking uncertain.

"There is a reason such an assemblage of individuals was seen as necessary," Mycroft said, smiling. "Each of you has skills that will be useful, as well as complementing each other." He paused, thoughtfully. "I believe now might be the time to introduce you all."

He looked to each of the individuals sat around the table.

"Firstly," he said, "I should inform those of you unaware of this that magic, as well as alien life, does exist."

Payne snorted, looking away from Mycroft disbelievingly. Bond also looked sceptical. Sighing, Mycroft looked at Ronald Weasley.

"Mr Weasley, a demonstration?" he asked.

Weasley blinked, before frowning. "That's against..."

"The secrecy laws are rescinded in the case of your fellow League Members," Mycroft cut in, somewhat impatiently. "Any demonstration will suffice."

Weasley frowned, still obviously unhappy. He took his wand out, aimed it at a piece of paper, and a moment later it had become a teacup. Payne's eyes widened and he swore, Bond looked shocked, but most of the rest of the group seemed at ease with the odd, though Miss Mason seemed quite nervous still, throwing a disturbed glance at Mr Weasley.

"I take it that proves the existence of magic?" Mycroft asked the table.

"Either that or you put something crazy in my drink," Payne said softly, apparently still shocked. "But sure, we'll go with magic, until I wake up or get out of the crazy trip."

"Excellent," Mycroft smiled ignoring Payne's ... idiosyncratic humour. "Then on with introductions."

He sat down, before running through another series of slides, each holding the image of one of the League members. The first was the image of the Doctor, in his Eighth incarnation. "Code name 'The Doctor', special scientific advisor to UNIT - that is, United Nations Intelligence Taskforce, though I believe that the term will be changed to Unified in the next few years to represent an alteration in priorities. Expert on most extraterrestrial forces, known expert in certain hand to hand styles."

"Where is this guy, then?" Miss Summers asked, looking at her fellow League members and noting the absence of the shown Doctor.

"The Doctor is an extraterrestrial himself," Mycroft replied, "and is capable of regenerating his physical form into an entirely different one upon the occasion of most severe injuries." The government agent smiled at the Doctor, who shifted uncomfortably, as if unhappy to be reminded of his own notable skills and attributes. Miss Summers looked at him, as if assessing him in comparison to the image.

"So you're the same guy as him?" she asked, pointing at the image of the Eighth Doctor.

"Yes," the Doctor said tersely, seemingly unhappy, though with what, Mycroft wasn't sure. "I am."

Summers looked unconvinced, but such was not Mycroft's problem. "He is also in possession of one of the more reliable pieces of transport in the universe: a time machine."

"Now I know you're crazy," Summers said, laughing. "Time travel doesn't exist!"

"That's not strictly accurate," Weasley put in. "There are a few magical means for time travel."

"None of which are as reliable as the Doctor's," Mycroft said, smirking in a condescending manner at the comparison between what was known of Wizarding time travel and what was known of the Doctor's TARDIS.

The Doctor gave him a look that suggested he was less than thrilled with Mycroft's candour about his time machine and it's abilities, but Mycroft ignored it, instead tapping the remote. A moment later, the next image appeared - that of James Bond.

"Mr James Bond, or rather Commander James Bond," he said, "of MI6. A member of the highly rated double-oh group, code name 007." He smiled. "Widely recognised by those 'in the know', so to speak, as one of the finest secret agents of our lifetimes."

Bond sat back, frowning slightly at the accolade. Mason and Summers both looked vaguely impressed, and Payne was apparently re-evaluating the man.

"Really, I'm only lucky," Bond said. "Other agents are as skilled as I am..."

"But none of them have quite your track record, Mr Bond," Mycroft said, cutting him off. "Believe me, we will need every ounce of your luck and skill."

Bond said nothing, merely nodding in response to Mycroft's point.

The next person on the slide was Ronald Weasley.

"Mr Ronald Weasley, one of the top magical law enforcement operatives - or Aurors - currently operating," Mycroft said. Weasley sank into his chair, looking faintly embarrassed. "Also a known associate of Harry Potter, one of the more famous wizards. However, Mr Weasley brings a physical resilience and strength that Mr Potter does not, and I fear your team will need such."

Weasley continued looking embarrassed, appearing entirely unhappy with the faint praise Mycroft was giving him. This was not unexpected.

The next slide showed Max Payne, looking fairly irritated.

"Mr Max Payne, formerly of the DEA and NYPD," Mycroft said. "Though his more notable achievements include his singularly excessive rampage across New York some time ago."

"Wait, as in the Max Payne, that criminal guy who killed all those mobsters a while back?" Miss Mason put in, sounding surprised and impressed all at once. Mr Payne grunted and waved off the sentence.

"In actual fact, I believe Mr Payne was framed," Mycroft commented, "though his body count certainly outdoes the reported numbers by a considerable degree."

"I didn't kill that many people," Payne said softly.

"Six hundred, I believe was the conservative estimate," Mycroft said dryly. Miss Mason boggled at that. Even Miss Summers looked faintly impressed. Payne grunted. obviously less than thrilled with discussing it. "In any case," Mycroft continued, "Mr Payne will serve most excellently as the team's weapons expert."

Payne grunted again, clearly not entirely unhappy.

The next picture was of Buffy Summers.

"Miss Buffy Summers, the current incumbent Vampire Slayer," Mycroft said. Weasley whistled.

"Heard some tales about you," he said, sounding impressed. "Living on a Hellmouth, am I right?"

"Yeah," Summers said, grinning. "Fun times."

"Needless to say, Miss Summers is the team's foremost hand to hand combatant," Mycroft continued dryly. "Her experience is one of the most unique of all the various Vampire Slayers that have existed over the course of the last three hundred years."

He tapped the remote, and the last picture appeared.

"And finally, Miss Heather Mason, also known as Cheryl Mason, also known as a reincarnated Alessa Gillespie," Mycroft said. Miss Mason blanched, and sank into her chair. "Adaptable combatant. Most notably a survivor of a visit to Silent Hill."

"Silent Hill?" Mr Payne said, frowning. "The ghost town? That's just an urban myth, isn't it?"

"Unfortunately not," Mycroft said, frowning slightly.

"I've heard of that place," Weasley said, a dark frown on his face: clearly he knew the name. "Anyone who survived being there should be bloody impressed with themselves."

Miss Mason didn't speak, looking quite unhappy at the thought of that dark, unpleasant place. Mycroft could quite sympathise: everything he had heard of Silent Hill made it seem a place one would never desire to visit if one had any sense of self-preservation.

"In any case, I hope you can all see that you each bring something important to this group," Mycroft said to them all. "Your mission begins in the morning. For now, I invite you all to remain here in the League HQ as guests. You will find your rooms upstairs - it should be most accommodating, I assure you."

Without another word, he left the room, leaving the new League alone to get to know one another. He wasn't entirely certain that it would work out - assembling a group of such individuals was never without a degree of risk, either that they would not get on or worse, that they would conflict - but he was certain that the rewards would be worth the risk.

Almost certain.


	3. Chapter 3: Night in League HQ

**Chapter Three: Night in League HQ.**

There was little effort made by the team to get to know one another, not that anyone expected otherwise. Mycroft provided them all with files on their teammates, though not all of them availed themselves of the knowledge as presented.

The man called the Doctor had wandered off and didn't appear to be staying in any of the rooms provided. Heather Mason and Buffy Summers had briefly started talking to one another, confirming that they were both Americans, and quickly had settled down to some sort of conversation in their rooms. Max Payne and James Bond were both in the HQ's bar, Payne drinking copious amounts of whiskey and Bond a vodka martini (shaken, not stirred).

It was a night of uncertainty for every member of the League, except perhaps one (though he had cheated somewhat, purely by accident). Each of them felt unsure of their place in the group - either because they did not trust their team mates, or because they did not trust themselves.

* * *

Ron Weasley say alone in his room, a bottle of high quality Firewhiskey in hand (his last one from the Leaky Cauldron: he had more money than he used to have, thankfully, so could afford such things a tad more readily than in the old days). The room was, as Mycroft had promised, quite magnificent, with a king sized bed, sofa, table and well stocked drinks cabinet. It was everything he could have asked for - but still, Ron felt ill at ease.

He couldn't help but feel as though he was an imposter here among the impressive - he wasn't extraordinary, not by any means. Max Payne had killed hundreds of mobsters. The Doctor was supposedly an expert on the strange and unusual. James Bond was a brilliant secret agent. Heather Mason had survived Silent Hill. What had he done? He was nothing but Harry Potter's layabout mate. Sure, he'd helped Harry at the Battle of Hogwarts, but there were a good few hundred people who could say exactly the same thing. It was Harry who belonged here. Not him.

There was a soft knock at his door. For a moment he considered yelling at whoever it was to piss off, but he supposed that, since he was part of some important League now, he had better not react like that to everyone that barged in.

"Come in," he said, his voice somewhat bleary.

The old man - 'the Doctor', Mycroft had called him - was standing in his doorway. He looked tired; his leather coat seemed even more battered now he was seeing it up close than it had in the meeting, and Ron could have sworn he had a small, faded bruise under one eye. He had removed the scarf from around his neck, making him seem even thinner and frailer than before.

"Good evening," he said, sounding as tired as he looked. "May I come in?"

"Sure," Ron said. He was a little confused but he wasn't about to question it.

The old man came in, sitting by the table and pouring himself a brandy from the drinks cabinet.

"I suppose," he said softly, "you must be wondering why I am here."

"Yeah," Ron said, softly. "I am a bit."

"More to the point," the older man said, as if Ron had not spoken, "you must be wondering why _you_ are here."

"That too," the redhead said, a frown on his features. "How did you..."

The older man held a hand up, forestalling Ron's questions. "Too much foreknowledge is a dangerous thing," he said, sounding deadly serious. "And I always have too much."

Ron ignored that comment as best he could - one thing he had always disliked about time travel was the idea that the future was something that always happened, and that no one could do anything to prevent it.

"I'm here to discuss war with you," the Doctor said, looking deadly serious. "If you don't mind."

"Any war in particular?" Ron asked, somewhat bemused by the topic.

"No. Merely our own personal experiences of such," replied the Doctor with a soft smile. "For I know those who have experienced conflict when I see them."

Ron frowned again. He never liked discussing his part in the war - for one thing, it reminded him of actions he had taken that her regretted (leaving Harry and Hermione alone, for one thing - he had never forgiven himself for that, and as he knew from their argument a few nights ago, much as she might claim otherwise, neither had Hermione). For another, he had lost his brother to the war as well, something he hated the thought of even now (_his brother's corpse lying there, a smile still etched into his face from sheer joy, now snuffed out forever..._).

"You've fought in wars?" Ron asked, frowning. It made no sense. He had read (well, skimmed) the Doctor's file, and it had suggested that he was the last person to take part in such activities. "I thought you were against them."

"I am," the Doctor replied matter-of-factly. "But there are times when one cannot simply stand back and allow a thing to happen. For me, such a time is here."

Ron re-evaluated the Doctor's appearance. The clothes were certainly battered - worn in boots, battered jacket, scruffy shirt and waistcoat, travel-stained trousers - and the bandolier was clearly something a warrior would wear (some more experienced Aurors sometimes wore similar belts to hold potions and daggers in, in Ron's experience). As well, the man had an aura of someone who had fought for a long time: he reminded Ron almost of the late lamented Alastor 'Mad-Eye' Moody, though without the scars.

"You're still fighting?" Ron asked.

"Regrettably," the Doctor replied, giving Ron a sad smile. "It is from that war that this errand draws me."

"Why are you helping us then?" Ron asked.

"Because..." the Doctor began, then he appeared to think better of it. "Because I was called. And I must answer."

Ron nodded, not entirely certain he accepted that answer. Still, he wasn't about to complain about it - that would be futile.

"For what it's worth," he said slowly, "I'm glad you're with us. If you're as impressive as the file says, we'll need a guy like you around."

"Perhaps," the Doctor said, smiling softly again. "But I think you are just as needed here, Mr Weasley."

"Nah," Ron said, laughing slightly. "It's my mate Harry who should be here."

"No," the Doctor said, once more sounding deadly serious. "It is you who should be here. Destiny calls those it needs, Mr Weasley, for any given moment. Your friend Harry's time was in the past, against a different threat. Now, I think, it is your time."

Ron blinked, considering the Doctor's words. Though he was perhaps a mite too drunk to really get them, he still appreciated the sentiment. He smiled softly.

"You really think so?" he asked, sounding almost hopeful.

"I know for a fact, Mr Weasley," the Doctor said.

There was a long pause.

"Tell me," the Doctor asked. "Do you think one ever gets used to conflict? Seeing those you knew slain? The blood of the innocent?"

Ron considered the question. It was a tricky one, to be sure. He had almost been at peace with the idea of killing, back in the days of the war.

_This night is one that will stain your soul._

But when he thought back to his losses, friends, family...

_My soul is already stained... let there be no more death if I can prevent it..._

He shook his head clear of the thoughts as they whispered through his mind. He had no idea where they had come from and truthfully, he didn't want to know.

"No," he said after a long moment in answer to the Doctor's question, his eyes looking up and meeting the tired eyes of the old man. "Not ever. But if you're in a war, you're there for a reason, yeah?"

"Do you believe so?" the Doctor asked, voice soft and wistful.

"I know it has to be," Ron said. "The war I fought was horrible. I'd never have gone through it if I had a choice, but... well, I didn't. The only other choice was letting bad things happen, wasn't it?"

"Perhaps," the Doctor said, a soft glint in his eye. "I was given such a choice, once."

_The universe stand on the brink. Will you let it fall?_

"What did you choose?" Ron asked, somewhat confused by the look in the man's eyes.

"To stand," the Doctor replied shortly, and Ron asked for no elaboration. "But still there are days when that choice burns."

"Yeah," Ron said. "I guess you never forget war. You never forget what you lose... and what you.., what you..."

"What you have done, in the name of peace and sanity," the Doctor finished. Ron nodded as the old man stood up. "Now if you excuse me," he added, "I should be returning to my bed. We have a long conflict ahead of us - more than one, in fact."

Ron frowned. "You talk like you know what's going to happen."'

"Not quite," the Doctor said, a tired - yet wry - smile on his face. "But while I shouldn't reveal as much, I feel safe in telling you that, from my perspective, this is not our first conversation, Mr Weasley."

Ron blinked. "You - wait, what does that mean?"

He was familiar with time travel, and the Doctor's file - skimmed by the young Auror along with every other - spoke well of his time travelling exploits. But that didn't mean he actually believed...

_I owe a debt, this is how I will repay it._

Ron's head hurt now, as though there was something he was forgetting: something big.

The Doctor didn't reply to his question, merely smiling and holding a finger up to his lips. Ron smiled softly in return, now feeling altogether better about this entire experience, though had he thought more about it he would have realised that the Doctor never mentioned whether he survived it or not (though had he truly thought about it that much he would have realised that he didn't care).

He soon fell asleep on his bed, or rather passed out from too much Firewhiskey. When he awoke, he would only have the vaguest memory of this conversation, and would write it off either as a dream or not what he thought it was.

* * *

Max Payne took another drink of his (regular) whiskey. It was certainly impressive stuff - not just the drink, but the entire building, the architecture, the comfort and the decor. It spoke of expense, although deep in his heart, he wasn't entirely impressed with the feel of this setup; it reminded him too much of Alfred Woden and his Inner Circle bullshit.

Having said that, he found himself pleasantly surprised that the place had such a decent bar.

"So," said James Bond, who was sitting opposite him, startling Max out of his thoughts. "What's your weapon of choice?"

"What?" Max asked, surprised. The man had sat with him, but until now he had been utterly silent, apparently content with his martini. Bond struck Max as the sort of guy who had seen more than he let on - the immaculate appearance didn't disguise the inner hardness.

"If you're as experienced as M says you are, I'm curious as to what your weapon of choice is," Bond said, leaning back thoughtfully, his words returning Max to his present conversation. "Assuming you have one."

"Not really," Max admitted, shrugging. "It's more a case of take what you can get, fire until you're out of ammo, and hope for the best."

"Fair enough," Bond says. "Have to admit, that sounds a lot like my experience of the whole thing as well."

"Don't they outfit you spies very well?" Max asked, smirking slightly. "Or have they cut your budget?"

"Oh, they outfit us very well," Bond smiled, looking at his wristwatch. Suddenly, a bright red beam leapt out, scorching the bar. A moment later, the initials J. B. were inscribed there, unsteadily. "They just don't give us what you'd call a multitude of guns. I'm usually given my Walther and that's about it."

"Was that a laser?" Max asked, eyes wide with shock and a twinge of awe.

"Yes," Bond said, that infuriatingly smug smile still on his face. "Q branch does it's best to give us some nifty gadgets."

"Huh. Could have done with that more than once," Max said, thinking back to various incidents where doors had stood in his way. Unfortunately, it reminded him too much of the one time a door stood in his way at the wrong moment - the door between him and his wife. He frowned.

"Bad memory?" Bond asked.

"The worst," Max replied. "I'd rather not discuss it."

"Your wife and child," Bond said softly. Max gave him a sharp look. "I read your file. It's in there. I'm sorry."

"What do you know about losing family?" Max snapped.

Bond sobered, and sighed, apparently unhappy discussing the whole thing but realising he had to.

"My wife was murdered," he said softly after a moment, "by agents of... well, by people working for one of the many enemies I've made over the years. It was our wedding day. She sat next to me, and all I could do was hug her." He paused. "It's not an experience I care to relive, but it happened."

Max suddenly felt awful for mentioning it, and worse for snapping. "I'm sorry, I didn't know. It wasn't in your file."

Bond smiled ruefully. "I know. An omission on their part."

They both sat in silence for a long moment. Then Max raised his glass.

"To family," he said softly.

"To family," Bond echoed, clinking his glass against Max's. They both drank in silence, both now wrapped in thoughts of those they had lost.

* * *

Heather Mason and Buffy Summers sat discussing strange things. They were each trying to one-up the other with thoughts of which monsters were the worst.

"Then there were the dog things," Heather said, midway through rattling off a list of all the strange creatures she had encountered, smirking slightly even though the memory was horrible.

"Dog things?" Buffy asked.

"Yeah," Heather smiled. "Bandaged dog things with split heads. They were horrible."

"What was all that about?" Buffy asked, looking faintly revolted about the whole thing.

"I don't know," Heather admitted, "and I'm not sure I want to." She smiled mischievously. "Ok, your turn."

"Alright," Buffy said thoughtfully, thinking back to all the various monsters she had fought. "There was this one time that I fought a demon that thrived on being loved, and it ended up being digitised."

"What, like on computers?" Heather asked.

"Yeah," Buffy said, smiling. "It was really weird. It ended up having a kind of robot body - not that it did it any good."

"That is weird," Heather said, frowning slightly.

"Anyway, your turn!" Buffy said, smiling.

Heather thought back to the various things she had fought over the course of her ordeal, leading up to the battle with the Order's God.

"There was the..." she said softly, but her voice trailed off.

"The what?" Buffy asked, frowning in confusion.

"Me," Heather said softly. "I fought me." At Buffy's confused face, Heather clarified. "That guy, Mycroft? He said I was a reincarnation of Alessa Gillespie, right?"

"Right," Buffy said, uncomprehending.

"Well, Alessa was a powerful psychic," Heather continued. "She was meant to birth a thing - the Order called it their God - but she never did. She sort of died, but she left a kind of imprint behind in Silent Hill."

"Like a ghost?" Buffy asked, tilting her head curiously.

"Almost," Heather said. "It looked like me, except darker - and it looked dead. It didn't speak. It - it tried to kill me, so I had to..."

She trailed off her voice dying to a croak. She hated thinking about it.

"Hey, sorry I asked," Buffy said, trying to be sympathetic.

"Don't be," Heather smiled, trying not to look too unhappy. "It's good to talk sometimes." She paused. "I don't even know why I'm here you know."

"Hey, even that wizard guy said that someone who survived Silent Hill was impressive," Buffy pointed out. "I bet a lot of the skills are transferable."

Heather nodded mutely, not seeming entirely convinced, but she put that behind her as she continued chatting with Buffy long into the night.

* * *

In the morning, the team assembled in the lobby, where Mycroft awaited them, a suitcase in hand.

"Good morning team," he said chirpily. "I think the contents of this briefcase may interest you."

He opened the case, holding it out in front of the team. Inside were three sharpened wooden stakes, several complicated looking gadgets, a Walther pistol and two Beretta 9 millimetre pistols. Bond immediately took the gadgets and the Walther, Buffy grabbed the stakes, Max Payne took one of the Berettas and Heather took the other.

"We always make sure our teams are as well equipped as needed," Mycroft said, not a little smugly. "As part of your mission, I'd like you to investigate the site of the previous attacks before anything else. Doctor," he continued, turning to the older man, "as one of the more experienced members of the group, I trust you won't mind taking command?"

The Doctor nodded once, solemnly.

"Excellent," Mycroft said happily. "Then the League of Extraordinary Gentlemen has begun it's mission. Good luck."

Without a word, he left, and the team were escorted to a government car to be driven to the scene.


	4. Chapter 4: League At Work

**Chapter Four: League at Work.**

The limo was pleasant enough, though Heather, Ron and the Doctor all looked uncomfortable to varying degrees.

James Bond looked entirely _too_ comfortable, suggesting that he was at least moderately used to this sort of transportation, though it was obviously a front - he kept his eyes glancing around as though expecting a trap to spring at any moment, even here.

Max Payne was simply tense, as though he was expecting things to go wrong (which, given his experiences, was probably to be expected).

Buffy Summers was apparently the only one truly comfortable with their transport, looking impressed and (almost) happy, but then she was simply enjoying being in the lap of luxury for a change, a state of affairs that was altogether uncommon for her.

"Once we are there," the Doctor said, getting everyone's attention, "those of us with investigative experience should take the lead. That would be Mr Bond, Mr Payne, and Mr Weasley, as well as myself."

"Don't think we can help?" Buffy asked, indicating herself and Heather. She wasn't sure she liked this guy much anyway, and the summary dismissal of the two girl's ability to help had left her, to say the least, mildly irritated.

"Not at this juncture," the Doctor said simply.

"Yeah, hate for us girls to get cooties or something on your crime scene," Buffy said, frowning at the old man.

The temperature in the car dropped by a good couple of degrees, the Doctor's brown eyes piercing the Slayer as if they were the sharpest daggers ever made - she shifted uncomfortably under his gaze, but held it nonetheless. His face was perfectly neutral, but everyone could tell he was insulted by what she had said.

"Forgive me," he said quietly, sounding only a little testier than he had been despite the sudden coldness of his eyes, "but _my_ understanding was that your skills lay in unarmed combat, _not_ forensic analysis. If I was wrong, or the file was in error, I would welcome the opportunity to be corrected, since it rarely happens. But in the meantime I will _not_ waste time I do not have by utilising the resources at my disposal _incorrectly_."

Buffy sat back, pouting slightly, but more than a little unnerved by the old man's sudden change in demeanour. She didn't look away though.

"Well, I'd still like to help," she said finally, quieter than she had expected.

"I don't mind so much," Heather put in, almost as if she were trying to relieve the tension in the room. "I knew I wasn't going to be much help."

"On the contrary," the Doctor said, smiling softly, the coldness disappearing. "Any insights you have - either of you - will be most welcome."

"What are cooties anyway?" Ron asked, frowning.

Heather and Buffy laughed, the tension in the car dissolving in an instant at the question, and Ron smiled nervously.

"No," he said. "Really. I've never heard of them."

* * *

A pair of UNIT soldiers were waiting by the door to the building, standing to attention as the Doctor and co entered the the crime scene. They saluted as the Doctor passed, and he waved them off tiredly, as if sick of the adulation.

"Has this site been disturbed?" he asked one of them.

"No sir," the soldier replied gruffly. "Your team is the first on-site. Mr Holmes called ahead, said he wanted you for this assignment."

"That would be 'M' taking care of everything," Bond commented dryly. "They usually do."

The Doctor said nothing, merely leading the team inside.

Inside the building was an entrance to an underground lab/storage area. Almost immediately, it was obvious that something inhuman had played a part in the robbery here, as the doors to the complex were all but completely smashed in by something - whatever it was, it had to have been strong.

"Would this be something demons or something did?" Payne asked, still sounding a tad sceptical about the whole thing.

"Magic, demons, certain aliens," the Doctor said, examining the damage and taking a small silver object from his bandolier. "It could have been anything."

"I'm not getting any weird vibes," Buffy put in. "So that might be a no-go for demons, but I should probably point out that the 'Slayer sense' is a little unreliable, and usually only works on vampires. There are plenty of demons that can break a door like that though."

"Thank you for the insight, Miss Summers," the Doctor said without sarcasm, not looking at her, and Buffy half smiled at being able to be useful where the old man hadn't expected her to be.

Inside the complex, the bodies of several scientists were splayed across the room, all of them riddled with bullet holes - whoever the aggressors had been, they had been merciless. There were also a few dead British Army guards, who had futilely tried defending the scientists, and two or three figures in black combat gear, complete with black face masks. Payne checked one of those bodies.

"One of the attackers?" Bond suggested, looking the man over,

"No symbols, high quality equipment," Payne said, frowning. "Could be mercenaries, I fought a few like this..."

He pulled the face mask off, and then recoiled in shock. Underneath the mask was a half-formed, almost embryonic face.

"Shit!" the grizzled ex-detective swore, eyes wide.

"Bloody hell," Ron added, looking faintly sick. "I've never seen anything like that..."

"Nor are you likely to for a long time," Bond said darkly, examining the face of the corpse. "It looks like one of the prototype Replica troopers that Armacham Technology Corporation is working on."

"I've heard about Armacham," Payne said, frowning. "But I thought they made weapons."

"That, Mr Payne," the Doctor said, sounding tired but not altogether upset, "is what Replicas are. Soldiers without conscience, without principle. Unquestioning."

The old man was waving his device around as if taking readings, a small red light blinking at the top of it. "I'm detecting no alien DNA traces," he added. "But there is something odd in the atmosphere - the sonic can't place it."

Bond had gotten a small phone-like device from his pocket, and was adjusting it.

"Can someone turn the light off, please?" he asked politely. Ron obliged, and a moment later the floor was bathed in a neon blue light: suddenly, footprints were visible, heading further into the lab complex. What disturbed some members if the league was that some of the footprints were decidedly inhuman. At once, Payne, Bond and Heather got their pistols out, and Ron aimed his wand. The Doctor aimed his pen-torch-thing in the direction of the footsteps, and then looked at it.

"Curious," he said, his voice now soft and thoughtful. "Traces of ethereal energies in those footprints."

"And ethereal energies means?" Max asked, sounding not a little annoyed.

"Paranormal," the Doctor said, now sounding fascinated.

"Great," Max said, sounding like he'd rather not have known.

Heather was scrutinising the footprints closely, as though she found something especially interesting about them. Buffy stood next to her, looking between the prints and her friend as if unsure what the other girl was seeing.

"I think I know those footprints," Heather said said softly after a moment. One hand continued aiming her beretta, and one went to her jacket pocket, where she quickly drew out a small radio. She looked at it for a moment, then held it up to her ear, but it apparently didn't give her what she wanted, for she immediately out it back.

"Some kind of muggle scanning thing?" Ron asked, giving the radio a look.

"No," Heather replied. "It's a radio. But it - I mean, I... never mind," she finished lamely.

"What?" the Doctor asked, looking at her. "It may prove vitally important."

"The footprints reminds me of some footprints I saw in Silent Hill," Heather said. "Footprints of... things. And whenever they were around, the radio started blaring static."

The Doctor nodded solemnly, apparently considering their options given this new information.

"Could these creatures be killed with bullets?" he asked.

"Yeah," Heather said emphatically. The Doctor seemed to make up his mind.

"Then you, Mr Payne and Mr Bond shall take point," he said.

"The radio isn't getting anything," Heather pointed out.

"Better safe than sorry," Ron commented dryly, wand still pointed in the direction of the footprints. "Gimme a sec, all of you, I want to try something."

He stepped forward, wand aimed. "_Homenum Revilio_!" he yelled.

A moment passed.

"What was that?" Buffy asked, arms crossed.

"People revealing spell," Ron replied, not reacting to her tone. "Nobody ahead, I don't reckon. But I don't like this, anyway."

"The creatures Miss Mason describes might not necessarily be revealed by a... 'people revealing spell'," Bond pointed out, sounding somewhat uncertain, as though he wasn't comfortable guessing about the limitations of something he didn't understand.

"Yeah," Ron agreed grimly. "I figured that much."

"Then the plan stands," the Doctor said with a refreshing certainty. "Payne, Bond, Miss Mason."

Bond and Payne immediately began moving, Bond still exposing the footsteps with his gadget in one hand while holding the Walther in the other. Payne was next to him, his Beretta aimed ahead of him, natural instincts taking over. Heather, more cautious than the other two, brought up the rear, her stance lacking the confidence and practice of the older men.

Behind them, Buffy, Ron and the Doctor walked. Ron had his wand out, a light now shining at the end of it. He was checking corners as the group advanced into the lab complex. Buffy had whipped a stake out, knowing that whatever they encountered was unlikely to be affected by it but also feeling comforted having it to hand. The Doctor had his silver device out, apparently scanning still.

"What is that thing?" Buffy asked him in an undertone.

"Sonic screwdriver," he replied softly, not taking his eyes from it.

"Sonic what?" Buffy asked, surprised.

"Screwdriver," the Doctor repeated. "Though it has been some time since I just used it for screwdriver purposes."

"My Dad would kill to have one of those," Ron put in, smirking grimly as he kept checking corners. "He loves muggle stuff."

"I will bear that in mind, Mr Weasley," the Doctor said dryly.

After a few metres of walking into the complex, the footprints stopped at a wall. Ron stepped forward and shone his wand at the crumpled form at the base of the wall. As they approached the body, Heather gasped, recognising it.

It was two-legged, barely, but it wasn't human by any stretch - it was taller than a human, with oversized 'arms' that looked like giant, spiked clubs.

"What the hell is that thing?" Payne said, eyes narrow.

"It was..." Heather began, swallowing reflexively out of disbelief and upset. "It was one of the things that was in Silent Hill."

Weasley cursed loudly. "Some idiot's been grabbing things from Otherworld. Bloody brilliant."

"Search the area," the Doctor said, eyes fixed on the creature. "We need to find more information."

"All the information we have so far isn't promising," Bond said, sounding slightly discouraged. "Replica soldiers - but they don't need to be Armacham variants, other companies might have begun similar programs. Something from Miss Mason's experiences in Silent Hill, but we don't know who brought it here."

"We have more information than we did when we entered," the Doctor said, his tone not changing from the dry commanding tone he had kept since entering. "We know this enemy is combining advanced technology of this period with paranormal elements taken from one of the more dangerous supernatural sites on Earth. That alone will narrow our suspects."

"If Armacham make Replica soldiers," Payne put in, "couldn't we throw them a line?"

"They wouldn't be willing to talk," Bond said grimly.

Weasley frowned, apparently thinking something over. "I think, if you got me in a room with whoever you want questioned, I could convince them. I'd need to write to a friend to find things out and get permission, but I could do it."

"I would argue then that this would be a logical next step," the Doctor said, putting his screwdriver away. "Until then, I fear we have exhausted our options here."

He turned to leave, and slowly, the other members of the group followed him.

* * *

Once they were back out of the lab and in their car, the Doctor ordered the driver to take them all back to League HQ. After a brief conversation with Mycroft's secretary, the Doctor suggested that everyone return to their quarters and await the next part of their mission. He himself wrote up a report and printed it off to give to Mycroft - Ron smirked at that. The very soul of diligence. Just like...

Don't' think about that.

Most of the rest of the team went to the bar, clearly deciding that sitting down and drinking would be a good idea, especially now they knew they were facing something altogether unpleasant.

Ron, after confirming with Mycroft that any correspondence he had to send would be handled by his office, immediately went to write a letter to Harry, feeling good about contacting his friend. He wasn't altogether used to Muggle pens, but he found it oddly more convenient than a quill. It was like the ink lot was inside the pen! Bloody marvellous.

_Dear Harry,_ his letter began, for all the world like he hadn't been a drunken mess when he had last seen his friend. He stopped, thinking about what he had been like. Then he thought about why he had been like that, and he frowned. Suddenly he wanted nothing but to go get drunk again to take his mind off of his pain, but he sighed and kept writing.

_Dear Harry,_

_Thought I'd write in to let you know that I'm alright and I'm where I was supposed to end up. I can't talk much about the work I'm doing. I get the feeling though that they should have asked you to do it instead: you'd feel less like a fraud than me, I imagine. Anyway, not why I'm writing._

_I need you to get me permission to use spells and potions on Muggles, specifically the Imperius curse and Veritaserum. I know it's an Unforgivable, but there's not a chance in hell of us figuring this out without me taking drastic measures. I also need a few vials of Veritaserum if I get that permission. Before you say that nothing can warrant it, whoever we're after has been to Silent Hill and got stuff - and by stuff, I mean creatures - from Otherworld. You'll want to tell the Americans about that one, but I hope that makes you realise why I need those permissions._

_I don't know what else I'm allowed to tell you about my work here. _

Here, Ron paused briefly.

_Tell Hermione I'm thinking of her, if you think she won't react too badly to it. If you can, ask her to look up any info on Otherworld she can dig up in her spare time. Also ask her -_

Ron stopped. He wasn't sure he was allowed to put this next part into the letter, but all the same he would have felt better about doing so.

_Also ask her to look up the League of Extraordinary Gentlemen. Don't ask why, just ask her to do it. _

_Hope to speak to you soon, mate._

_Ron._

Ron frowned at the letter before putting it in it's envelope and giving it to Mycroft's secretary. He didn't know if it would get him the permissions he needed but he figured it would be a start. Having done that, he headed downstairs, intent on drinking something - anything - to distract him from the wellspring of unhappy feelings that were welling up inside him.

* * *

When Ron got to the bar the Slayer, Buffy, as well as Bond and Payne, were all already there, all of them discussing something that was obviously at least a little amusing, judging by the laughter. Ron sat with them, pouring himself a whiskey from the well stocked shelves. He didn't normally hold with Muggle alcohol but desperate times called for desperate drink, and he was the very definition of desperate.

"Evening all," he said with a soft grin.

"Hi," Buffy said cheerfully. She held a glass of coke, no one stupid enough to give her alcohol.

"Mr Weasley," Bond added with a nod and a smile, a vodka martini in hand.

Ron on took a swig of the whiskey. It wasn't nearly as strong as Firewhiskey, which was slightly disappointing. He'd need to drink far more of the stuff to get the desired effect.

"Who'd you write to, Weasley?" Payne asked him as he poured a second glass.

"A colleague," Ron replied, not really wanting to discuss it. He downed the second glass, and poured a third. "Trying to get permission to use certain magical means of coercion."

"You think you'll get it?" the ex-detective asked, eyebrow raised as he drank from his own glass.

"We can but hope," Bond put in, sounding suddenly serious, "because I don't think Armacham's people will let their secrets out so easily."

"We'll see," Ron said, smiling softly. He was feeling a tad buzzed, but he wasn't where he wanted to be yet. He poured a fourth glass, his third already gone.

"Could just beat someone up," Buffy pointed out, grinning slightly in a self-conscious way. "I'm not good at some of your spy wizardy stuff, but really good at that part."

"Spy... wizardy?" Bond said, smirking.

"I don't doubt you're good at beating people up," Payne said to Buffy in a dry tone. "But somehow, I doubt that's going to work as well as whatever Mr Weasley here has in mind."

Buffy shrugged at that.

"Can you guys call me Ron?" Ron asked, smirking. His fourth glass was all but empty by now. "Every time someone says 'Mr Weasley' I think my Dad's in the room." He downed what was left of his fourth glass and poured his fifth.

"Fair enough," Payne said, smiling good-naturedly. "In that case, I'm Max."

"And I'm James," Bond added, smiling softly.

"I've always been Buffy," the Slayer added with a lopsided grin, "so that's really no surprise."

Ron laughed, now feeling very buzzed, and the group of extraordinary individuals continued talking long into the night, each one of them filled with fascinating stories about their lives and what they had done...


End file.
